9
Between his flamboyant attire and the wide berth granted him by the other bugs, Soul Master was not difficult to spot. He floated down the library's main thoroughfare, hurling imperious looks at any that dared to meet his eye.
Lurien planted himself in what he predicted to be Soul Master's path. He snatched a scroll at random from a nearby shelf and tried to affect an air of self-assured disinterest. He had no intention of revealing his agitation to an adversary the likes of Soul Master. As Lurien stared at what appeared to be a treatise on the rejuvenating power of fungal paste, it struck him that he had not always used that word—adversary—to describe Soul Master.
Long ago, longer than Lurien cared to calculate, the Soul Sanctum had been a mere subsidiary of the Spire, beholden to all its regulations. Lurien recalled touring the Sanctum's halls, a young, timorous Soul Master leading the way.
In the span from then to now, what could possibly have transformed Soul Master into such a grandiloquent menace? As it was for so many other things, the answer was likely Geo.
Though the Sanctum's funding had initially been the purview of the Spire, Soul Master's endeavors into the arcane had begun attracting the attention of the City's noblebugs. By whatever wheedling means, he had secured the financial backing of several powerful institutions. What had he promised them? Power? Immortality? Regardless, the new influx of Geo had granted Soul Master all the autonomy he desired. And the emergence of the Infection had only worsened this, of course. Half the bugs in the City were convinced that he alone possessed the intellect needed to develop a cure.
Lurien could say from experience that this was not the case.
As he rolled through his scroll, not really reading, Lurien became aware of a presence beside him. With effort, he suppressed the urge to look up. A throat was cleared, and then again, a moment later, but Lurien did not budge.
Finally, with a protracted sigh came "Greetings, Watcher."
Lurien lifted his head. Before him, hung Soul Master—vestments billowing in nonexistent wind, atrophied legs pendulating in open space.
"What a surprise," Lurien said. "Welcome to the Spire."
Soul Master's great, flapping mouth tightened briefly. "Surprise? My most recent missive warned of my arrival. Was it not received?"
Lurien considered the red flare of his fireplace. "Oh, yes, of course, forgive the lacking reception, but the Spire has been quite occupied of late."
Soul Master scanned the library and settled on a dozing scribe. A half-finished scroll was crumpled under the scribe's mask like a frilled pillow.
"Indeed," Soul Master said. "I have not seen a bustle of this scale since my last visit to the King's Theater."
Lurien did not react to the jab, instead making a show of returning to his scroll. "So, what brings you here? Have you come for reading material? Pleasantries, perhaps? I have enough time to accommodate an afternoon chat but can promise nothing more."
"As stated in my missive," Soul Master said—his every word a nail, "I have arrived to inquire about my previous request."
"A plethora of requests cross the Spire's threshold every day. You must remind me."
"The Vault! The Pale Vault, you—" Soul Master's mouth snapped shut. He exhaled, and the gust faded from his cloak.
Lurien rolled to the next section of his scroll. "Ah, that one."
Soul Master paused to reclaim his formality. "I await your reply to my humble request of free access to the Pale Vault within this Spire. It is of supreme importance. The King's endeavors into the nature of Soul could prove the final key to my research."
"As stated in my missives," Lurien said, "access to the Pale Vault is not granted lightly. Few are worthy to behold the King's private thoughts."
"But I am on the very cusp of discovery! With that knowledge, I could conceive a cure to the Infection!"
"If such knowledge existed in the Pale Vault, do you not suppose that the King would have already eliminated this plague?"
Soul Master turned his head. "The King has ruled Hallownest for generations. Even He is not beyond the grip of time. In his old age, he must have overlooked a critical detail. You understand how distracted the elderly can become."
Venom burned low in Lurien's throat. He fought to keep it free from his voice. "Allowing the improbability of our King's imperfection, I must still reserve time to consider your request."
"It has been a month, Watcher! How much more consideration do you require?"
Lurien set his scroll aside with intentional slowness. "I have already made it abundantly clear that I will contact you once my deliberation has concluded. There is no need for you to expend your valuable time inquiring."
Soul Master stiffened. He took a deep breath as though readying a bellow, but instead loosed a breathy hiss. "None could accuse the Watcher of being impetuous. You are correct that my time is valuable—especially now, given this kingdom's encroaching demise—but if you insist, then I have no choice but to wait."
Lurien faltered. "…I appreciate your understanding, Soul—"
"However," Soul Master said, "because every instant is indeed so precious, I will remain here at the Spire until my request is approved. In that way, I may resume my research the very moment it is permitted."
Lurien made a noise—a long, toneless hum. "Come again?"
"It is the Spire's custom to accommodate noble visitors, is it not?"
"That is… true."
"Surely there is ample space for me in this sprawling structure."
"…In a geometric sense, technically."
"Then it is settled," Soul Master said, bobbing almost merrily. "I will send for my things. I require a sizable, well-ventilated chamber for experimentation. In addition, I will need a fully-appointed bedroom within reasonable distance of your own so that we may more easily converse."
As though he were clutching at a greased rope, Lurien felt it all slipping away. "The Sanctum is an hour's walk! This is hardly necessary. How much time do you hope to save by lodging here?"
"All that I can. An hour could spell the difference between salvation and oblivion. Do not trouble yourself, Watcher. I will suffer this for the Kingdom."
Despite the blood pounding in his shell, Lurien stopped to consider. Should he refuse? Could he, even? Although it was within his power—and by the King did he long to do it—such a slight against Soul Master would not go unnoticed. Word would spread among the nobles that Lurien had denied the most basic hospitality to one of their own. He had already offended several families by declining to attend a recent string of galas. Any more of that, and his public approval would plummet. Though Lurien cared little for the nobles' opinions, he still required their cooperation in matters of state. Bureaucracy was a double-edged nail, and the nobles could make Lurien's job a waking nightmare if they chose to rally against him. Knowing Soul Master, he would make every effort to foment that revolt.
All this and more raced through Lurien's mind as Soul Master leered down.
"Well?" Soul Master asked.
Haltingly, Lurien lifted a claw into the air. "Attendant!"
The sound of scuttling feet approached from behind. Lurien turned to address the attendant. "Our illustrious guest, Soul Master, will be residing—" He stopped.
Belvedere stood before him, scroll and quill at the ready. "Yes, Watcher?"
"Not you!" Lurien said. He flicked his wrists as though shooing a Vengefly.
Belvedere lowered his quill and slinked away without a word. In an instant, another attendant stepped up to occupy his place.
Lurien eyed this new attendant. He felt a twinge of remorse for the curse he was about to inflict. "Soul Master will be residing within the Spire for the foreseeable future. Provide him with lodging befitting his station. Do your utmost to fulfill his requests in the coming days. You are to be his prime assistant."
To her credit, the attendant did not hesitate, instead granting Soul Master a lavish bow and gesturing toward the elevator across the library.
Soul Master chuckled. "Watcher, your generosity is without equal. Once my effects are in order, we will speak again soon. I hope to make of our chats a frequent habit." With that, he floated off, head high in triumph.
Lurien's back popped as he fell into a hunch. He shook his head, a tiny, unconscious gesture.
How had it gone so wrong so quickly? What should he have done? What could he have?
"Who's the funny gasbag?"
Lurien jolted.
Hornet was standing beside him, an enormous tablet balanced on her head. A tremble of exertion ran through her neck and arms, but she seemed unbothered.
Lurien steadied himself—straightened. "That… individual is Soul Master, a noble of significant influence within the City. We will be accommodating him for the time being."
Soul Master drifted through a choked intersection, berating those that impeded his progress.
"And I thought you were grumpy…" Hornet said.
Lurien did not comment.
"How long is he staying?"
"As long as I refuse to grant what he desires…"
Hornet's head cocked, and the tablet slid dangerously. "What does he want?"
"To delve a library of your father's making, a place replete with ancient knowledge—the sort that Soul Master would not hesitate to exploit."
"But they're just a bunch of dusty scrolls, right? Who cares? They're all over the place. Let him look and then he'll leave."
Lurien considered how best to respond. "Do you recall our meeting with the Songstress, when you injured me with that feat of Soul?"
Hornet lowered her tablet, resting its edge on the ground as though she were a shielded knight in a pose of contrition. "Yes, I'm really sorry."
Lurien waved a claw, absolving her yet again. "You wielded a power that you did not understand, and with it came a consequence. Though you have the dignity to regret that misdeed, Soul Master long ago lost such capacity. Were I to grant him access to the Vault, then he might unearth a power exponentially more destructive than yours."
Hornet reached up to brush the tassel of the toy nail on her back. It was a tentative gesture, as though she feared she might be cut.
"But enough of that," Lurien said quickly. "How goes your reading?"
"Oh, it's, um, it's good."
"Well, tell me of it."
With a grunt, Hornet hefted the tablet and flipped it over. Wobbling all the while, she cradled it against her chest and ran a digit over the script. "'The Land of Pharloom: A Wanderer's Journal', by Ellina the Ch-Chron-Chronicler."
"Ah, I am familiar with that work," Lurien said. "It paints a glowing portrait of that silk-song kingdom."
"I know!" Hornet squealed, "Isn't it amazing? They have this place called a citadel. I have to see it! Can we visit soon?"
Briefly, Lurien envisioned the perils that a journey halfway across the known world would entail. "No."
"But why?" Hornet implored.
"For the same reason I deny you free reign of the City; you are a princess. Someone of your station is not meant to be endangered."
Hornet muttered something about 'scaredy-flies' but pressed no further.
"And as we circle the subject of personal safety," Lurien said. "I feel that I must make myself thoroughly understood. Heed me now, child. You are to avoid Soul Master at all costs. He is not like the Songstress. He cannot be appeased with something as simple as a royal audience. If he were to learn your identity, he would—he would—I do not know what he would do, but believe this, it would be utterly despicable."
Hornet set her gaze firmly on Soul Master. Some other poor bug had attracted his ire and was suffering the verbal lash.
"You really don't like him," Hornet observed.
"I suppose I do not…"
"Do you want me to get rid of him?"
"Get rid of?" Lurien balked.
"Yes, I can make him go away. I've done it plenty of times."
"Explain yourself."
Hornet giggled. "Oh, but that would ruin the surprise! It's not as fun if you know how it'll happen."
Something in those words struck Lurien as profoundly ominous. He thought to interrogate the girl further, but something else came to him. "…Where is the Vessel?"
Hornet pointed. "Getting yelled at by Gasbag."
Lurien peered at Soul Master's current victim. They were partially obscured behind a shelf, but then he spied the slender, white horns. "Oh, no."
Trapped between decorum and haste, Lurien shuffle-jogged across the library. As he neared, Soul Master's invectives grew clearer.
"Well? Speak up, you gawking ruffian. Have you any defense for bumbling into the Scholar Supreme? Can you begin to fathom the severity of this transgression? Answer me!"
The attendant at Soul Master's side cooed a stream of consolations, but he heard none of them.
As always, the Vessel met the threats with a dispassionate stare.
"What is the trouble?" Lurien asked through a slight pant.
"This impertinent bug," Soul Master jabbed a claw in the Vessel's face, "collided with me and lacks the good sense to plead—"
On some unknown impulse, the Vessel reached out and touched the tip of Soul Master's claw. There was a faint wind, a warm, white light. Just as it had been in Marissa's chambers, Lurien felt a whisper of Soul in the air. And just as suddenly, it was sucked away.
Gasping, Soul Master retracted his claw. He held it up as though examining a wound.
Lurien shook his head to ensure his vision wasn't failing, for the claw was desiccated; drained of life.
Soul Master fell back, cradling his withered limb. "What is the meaning of this, Watcher?"
Had he not been beaten to it, Lurien might have asked the very same question. He groped for a lie but found nothing plausible. He settled for silence.
With a snarl of focus, Soul Master clenched his claw. It crackled like dead moss. Another flurry of Soul rose, setting his cloak to thrashing. Slowly, color crept into his shell, beginning at the wrist and descending to the tips of his digits. From the way he quaked, it must have demanded monumental effort.
Once mended, Soul Master let out a ragged breath. He shot a look at Lurien so deathly that it seemed to imply he was to blame for the injury, not the Vessel. "Explain this!" Soul Master shouted.
"It appears to have been an act of Soul," Lurien said. He felt as though he were made of shellwood, a thin board about to topple.
"Of course, it was an act of Soul! Anyone could perceive that! Why is this bug capable of advanced Soul manipulation? And without any mechanical assistance!"
Lurien coughed, one wheezing puff. "I… could not say. That is not a field of study in which I have expertise."
"Curse the expertise! Who is this bug? They crossed your threshold, stand in your very library. You must know their name! Do they realize it is a crime to assault a noblebug? I could have them—"
"They're my assistant!" came a shrill at Lurien's elbow. Hornet was suddenly beside him again, materialized out of that liminal space she seemed to always occupy.
Lurien resisted the insane urge to lift his arms and hide her like an embarrassing portrait.
"Your assistant?" Soul Master asked. "And you are?"
"She is—" Lurien said—
"—I'm Princess Flower from Pharloom!"
It required every shred of Lurien's will not to scoff at the lie. He locked his claws behind his back and nodded gently. "As she says."
Soul Master shifted his scrutiny away from the Vessel. "Pharloom? The land beyond the wastes? What business could be so vital that it demands a princess make that dire crossing?"
This time, Lurien was quicker to the draw. "Education!" He blurted. "Nothing could be more vital, after all." He loosed a hollow chuckle, then hastened to embellish. "The Spire was contacted by the Royal Court of Pharloom recently, asking that we foster and educate their royal heir for a period of months. It appears the Spire's wealth of knowledge has become something of a legend in the other kingdoms."
"Oh, yes," Hornet said, bobbing just a bit too eagerly.
"And the Court of Pharloom was not dissuaded from this idea by news of the Infection?" Soul Master asked.
Lurien lifted a shoulder. "Despite our gravest warnings, no."
Soul Master hummed and spent a troubling amount of time inspecting Hornet's face. Eventually, he swept into an awkward, hovering bow. "My sincerest greetings to you, Princess Flower of Pharloom. I am Soul Master, Minister of the Soul Sanctum, another institute of great learning in this kingdom. Perhaps you have heard of it?"
"No."
Soul Master tensed but then chuckled. "After my work here is concluded, we must remedy that. I will personally provide a tour."
Hornet seemed to weigh the offer. "No thanks."
Like a bubble in a pool of acid, Soul Master swelled, but he did not pop. "Unfortunate," he said.
At a covert sign from Lurien, the attendant gestured at the elevator and suggested in a honeyed voice that Soul Master inspect his sleeping accommodations.
But Soul Master did not even glance at her, instead returning to the Vessel. "Tell me, Princess Flower, is your assistant typical in the Kingdom of Pharloom? Their mastery of Soul would be considered quite exceptional by the metrics of Hallownest."
Hornet tapped her chin. "Mastery? They just started, I think. Is Soul stuff hard for the bugs here?"
"Quite hard, yes. I take your reaction to imply that Soul manipulation is common among the populous of Pharloom?"
Lurien could feel the deception beginning to totter. With every added question, it grew closer to collapse. He placed a warding claw on Hornet's shoulder, but the girl was oblivious.
She laughed as though having scored a point in a game. "Of course, even I can do it!"
"Impressive, most impressive," Soul Master said. "Could I trouble you for a demonstration?"
Lurien's grip tightened.
"M-Maybe not today," Hornet said, as though finally realizing her position.
"What of your assistant?" Soul Master asked. "I would be willing to overlook their earlier offense in exchange for a show of Pharloomian Soul Magic."
"They're tired," Hornet said.
Soul Master leaned in toward the Vessel. "They do not look it." He made a curious noise. "Is your assistant native to Pharloom? They bear a certain… familiar aura."
This had gone long enough. The scalpel of Soul Master's inquiry was cutting too deeply. Much longer, and it would draw blood. Lurien needed a distraction, something else to occupy his guest. But what would pique Soul Master's interest? What did he even care for beyond power and his own aggrandizement?
Then it came in a flash.
"My apologies, Soul Master," Lurien said in his most executive tone, "but these two must be moving along."
"So soon?" Soul Master asked in a way that bordered on malice. "We have just begun. I have many more questions."
"Yes, it is unfortunate, but much more dawdling, and they will be late for rehearsal."
"Rehearsal?"
Lurien nodded, feigning hesitance. "It had been my hope to surprise you, but I have little skill for secrecy. For some time, the Spire has been producing a theatrical performance chronicling your personal history. Given our longstanding friendship—" he paused to choke back the bile, "we thought this an appropriate way to honor you."
Soul Master faltered, so much so that he nearly fell out of the air. After a few clumsy attempts at a reply, he collected himself. "I did not know you were aware of my fondness for theater."
"I am the Watcher, am I not?"
"Wh-When will it be complete?" Soul Master asked.
"As chance would have it, a matter of days."
"I… look forward to it," Soul Master said.
It was the most guileless thing that Lurien had ever heard emerge from Soul Master's mouth.
By some sweet mercy of the King, when the attendant repeated her entreaty to Soul Master, he actually acquiesced.
Lurien waved as the attendant guided a dazed Soul Master toward the elevator and out of sight.
"That was close," Hornet said. "Gasbag is so nosy."
"'Close'?" Lurien wheeled on the girl. "An egregious understatement if I ever heard one. We skirted catastrophe! Did I not just warn you to avoid him?"
"Spirit needed help!"
"I am aware," Lurien growled, "but I could have resolved that situation well enough without you."
"Okay, fine, I'm sorry. But it's too late now."
"Indeed, it is, Princess Flower."
Hornet wiggled her shoulders. "A good name, right? It just came to me!"
Lurien pressed a claw to his mask. He leaned on a shelf and counted down from ten. At one, he righted himself and set into motion. "Come along, children."
The girl and the Vessel fell into step.
"Where are we going?" Hornet asked.
"To prepare a play…"
